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I’d say after twenty years the statute of limitations has run out on blogging about details of past relationships.

I had a boyfriend who was a good man, whose only sin was a lack of self-confidence that led to a childhood of substance abuse and eventually a binge alcoholism justified by him in its relative sobriety to his earlier years.

As men are wont to do he confessed to me on the first night of our relationship his deepest, weirdest sin.

Once, when 17, he drank a few bottles of vodka and found a random dog and had it fuck him up the ass.

Told in the context of a deepest, weirdest, past sin – and in contrast to the rest of his personality – I accepted it as a literary flaw, and dogfucker him as my boyfriend for three years. I’m thankful to have reached the level of maturity where I now understand the stupidity of that – as it was alcohol that eventually broke us up. I can’t deal with the boozers.

That drunken space, the place where inhibitions have been erased beyond what is helpful for anyone. This space has value I’m sure, maybe it’s good to know what raw twisted behavior comes out when repression is reduced and senses deadened. When we have obliterated and intoxicated some portion of us there’s sometimes something amazing available behind whatever we’ve destroyed and poisoned.

We all have a little dogfucker in us that needs to get out.

However, I believe heartily in this: once you get the message, hang up the phone. No one needs to fuck a dog twice.

Speaking of stupidity and repeated dogfucking – one morning at about four he stumbles up the stairway drunk on whiskey. He has the decency not to sleep in our bed, knowing he may piss or puke in his sleep, so passes out in the hallway on the floor. At this point our relationship is close, but tense due to these nights of drunken binges and my severe issue with anyone who abuses alcohol as their drug of choice.

The next morning I see scratches on his back, deep scratches that I know *cannot* be human. My heart stops – I already know the answer:

“What happened to your back?”

He tells me the story point blank, he drank, he blacked out, he remembers pieces – like going to the park, finding a stray dog with an injured paw – and getting it to fuck him up the ass.

Any time I’ve told this story in the past years – to anyone with a strong stomach and sense of humor – they ask:

“How the hell did he get the dog to fuck him up the ass?”

I don’t know. I was too stunned to think of that, so all I said was:

“Well, did you use a condom?”

Rightfully, he reacted as if that was ridiculous.

Then again, so is ass-fucking a dog.

He was a good man though, even if a dogfucker, and I couldn’t technically count it as cheating. I also couldn’t count it as animal abuse since the dog fucked him, and not the other way around, even though I’ve been a vegetarian my entire life.

So I stayed with him another year.

I’ve never been able to tell this story with a straight face so I hope you’re laughing too.

(Thanks for reading Dogfucker. For more stories from this era check out my book, Down and Out in California.)


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